


Sayin' Grace

by sprl1199



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Genre: Family moments, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:34:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sprl1199/pseuds/sprl1199
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of the Evans clan written during Yuletide 2011 for FiKate, who wanted to see a bit more about how the Evans family works together.  Set pre-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sayin' Grace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiKate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiKate/gifts).



> Happy holidays, FiKate!!! I hope this is what you were looking for! :)

Pa and Will quarrel during breakfast. Not that that’s an oddity, things bein’ as they are, but the words they use this time are about the breakfast fare itself. Which is irony, if nothin’ else.

 _Irony_. Miss Katherine said during their vocabulary lesson last week that it means saying one thing and meaning another. Or something like that.

Mark takes another small bite of his biscuit and peers up at his family through his bangs. There's mounds of _irony_ in his family's quarrels.

“This is the same batch of biscuits we’ve been eating for the past three days!” Will flings his hand out violently with three fingers showin’, as though to make his point more _apparent_ (which means clear).

“I know, William,” Pa says. He looks tired. But that’s no oddity either. “We’ll get a new bag of flour here in a few days.”

“When exactly? When the rain comes and we get some grass to feed the herd? Or when you finally decide to take better care of your family?”

“You watch your tongue,” Pa snaps, acting as the disciplinarian since their Ma isn’t in the _vicinity_ , ‘cause she’s out doin’ the washin’. The lines in his face cut deeper for a moment, like tilling furrows in a field. Mark remembers a time when there were no lines: when his Pa smiled all the time and looked happy and relaxed, eyes wide and open as he played with Mark—who was just a baby then—throwing him into the air and catching him over and over again.

Although maybe Mark just dreamed the memory.

Will sighs, but it ain’t a surrender: more like he's steelin' himself up. “I wanna join up with Samson.”

Pa’s eyes narrow immediately, and he looks at Will: watchful as a hunting dog, or maybe a coyote. “No.”

Mark’s milk sloshes when Will slams his hand down on the table. “He pays every week. Damnit, Pa, I can help!”

“Don’t use language like that around your brother,” Pa says sharply. “And you can help best by helping me take care of the farm, not running off with a pack of low-life rustlers.”

“They’re _wranglers_. And we’re not exactly high society neither. if they're such low-lifes, who’s to say I don’t belong right there with ‘em?”

“Me,” their Pa says, standing and looming over the table. He has that look in his eye: the one he gets sometimes when he wakes up in the middle of the night remembering the war and goes to stand looking out the door, rifle in hand and edged in moonlight. “As long as you live under my roof, you'll stay away from that vermin.”

Will backs down. Big as he’s gettin’, there are just some times you don’t wanna cross Pa.  


But he still slams the wooden chair into their small, scarred table as he leaves, then bangs the door loudly as he pushes through it, headin’ to the barn.

Pa sighs. Then he looks at Mark. “You ready for your lessons with Miss Katherine?”

Mark nods, but he thinks that the book learnin’ he gets from Miss Katherine doesn’t seem to fit at all in real life. Will’s troubled ‘cause wants to be grown-up fast so he can work to protect them all—like Pa—but there isn’t a word for that as far as Mark knows. Still, he tries.

"Pa, Will just wants to help a little more. He's being _altruistic_. That means thinking of others," Mark adds helpfully.

Pa stares at him a moment, blankly, then grunts and heads out the door. “Get your things. I’ll give you a ride into town.”

Pa doesn’t look back, but he shortens his choppy, rollin’ stride enough that Mark has no trouble keeping up. He's very _solicitous_ , though it don't always show in an obvious way.

**

Billy Benton is a _cretin_ (Mark thinks this means ‘son of a whore,’ but he’s not sure; it seems right). Mark isn’t but five paces from Miss Katherine’s house after his lesson when Billy has tripped him into what must be the only puddle of mud in Bisbee.

“Lunger,” Billy sneers at Mark, kicking a pile of dirt into the air so it rains all into Mark’s hair and mouth. A pair of other boys with Billy—smaller than Billy but bigger than Mark—laugh shrilly, like a pair of crows.

Mark sits up and rubs at his face, but the dirt and dust gets in his eyes anyway, and they tear up.

“Ah, you made him cry, Billy.” One of the crow-boys says, and then the other, who seems to have a more excited disposition, yells. “Lunger cry-baby!”

“Course he’s cryin’!” Billy Benton says with authority. He’s the bank teller’s son. “He’s poor as dirt with a crippled daddy and a piece of dried up shit for land.”

Mark’s eyes blur more, and it _obscures_ (fuzzes) what he can see, but he doesn't really need to see to know how this is going to end. He's had plenty of practice with this ever since he can recall, but that doesn't mean he'll roll over and play possum. “I’m not cryin’! There’s dirt in my eyes, that's all. And you’re all cretins.”

Billy Benton and his friends scoff at Mark’s words (even though they prolly don’t know what they mean, Billy Benton bein’ _moronic_ and also a cretin). Or they would have scoffed, ‘cept right then Will comes out of nowhere, grabs Billy’s ear, and twists it hard.

“Are you botherin’ my brother?” Will growls, glaring furiously at the three boys. He’s shot up a lot this past summer, and he towers over them by at least two heads. He looks like Pa for a moment, though maybe that’s just a cause of the dust in Mark’s eyes.

None of them answer, but one of them—smaller and blonde, with a dust-streaked nose—takes off like a rocket behind the mercantile, leaving his two friends behind. Will lets him go, shifting his glare to Billy, who’s on his tip-toes tryin’ to keep his ear stuck to his head.

“Mark, are these boys botherin’ you?” Will gives up on waiting for Billy Benton or the other boy to answer, and looks to Mark instead. He’s still scowlin’ something fierce, but his forehead has crinkled up in the middle, like it does when he’s worried. _Apprehensive._

Mark smiles widely at his brother to let him know he’s alright and stands, spittin’ the last of the dirt from his mouth. “I ain’t hurt, Will. You can let him go.” And Will does.

“Thanks,” Mark adds belatedly, as they both watch Billy Benton and his friend race away ( _flee_ ).  


“It’s nothin’,” Will says with a grunt. “If we don’t look out for each other, who will?”

It seems like there’s an obvious answer to that question—it bein’ _rhetorical_ —but Mark doesn’t think Will would be glad to hear it.

Mark says something else instead. “Pa’s waitin’ outside Mr. Billings's shop. We can go home together.”  


Will’s face shutters immediately. “I ain’t ridin’ with him. I’ll make my own way.”

“Will, I know you want to do more for us, but maybe Pa knows better when you should start workin’. He’s smart. He’s the one who taught you to be brave and hard-workin’ in the first place,” Mark says, gentle as he can.  


It don’t help none. His brother gives him a cold look—like he’s callin’ Mark a traitor with his eyes—and strides off.

Will does make his own way home, while Mark and Pa travel together, but now he’s feeling ill at the both of them. Which maybe means that the problem has _duplicated_ , but Mark knows Will won't stay sore at him for very long.

**

But, as it happens, Will’s still angry with Mark later in the day, and their tight, little kitchen feels all the hotter for his temper sloppin’ all over the edges and against the whitewashed walls.

“You’re not doing it right,” Will hisses at Mark. “Stir faster or they’re going to burn.”

Mark’s arm is already tired from stirring the huge pot of beans—of all the cookin’ chores, tending the pot is one he finds _loathsome_ (which means awful and he’d rather be shovelin’ horse shit)—and the steam has made his face all flushed and dampened his hair to a sticky mess on his forehead. “They’re fine,” he replies shortly.

“No they’re not. They’re gonna burn, and we’re gonna eat them for a damned month, and it’ll be your fault for bein’ so lazy.”

“I ain’t lazy,” Mark shoots back. “I help out lots. You’re the one who can’t wait to get off the farm and have adventures.” And leave us all behind, Mark doesn’t say.  


Will’s face goes tight. “I don't care what you do, but I’m not gonna die here on this God forsaken piece of dirt.”

Mark feels a white-hot flash of anger that makes the kitchen fire look like a lit match against a house fire. And all those things he’s wanted to say to Billy Benton and all the other boys that have kicked him or hit him or whispered insults at him on the streets of Bisbee come pouring out. “It’s _good_ land! It’s gonna rain, and then you’ll see! It’s gonna be beautiful, and we’re gonna sell all our herd, and then we’ll have the money to build ourselves a bigger house and a barn and lots of nice clothes!”

Will makes a sound of disbelief, and it’s as harsh as the boy-crows from town’s laugh. “You’re kidding yourself if you think things are ever gonna change. And you know what? It’s your fault we’re here in the first place. If it hadn’t been for your lungs-”

There’s a crash as their Ma—who had walked into the doorway unseen by either of them—drops the dish she’s carrying. Mark’s anger shatters with it.

“William!” She exclaims. She’s white-faced, and as Mark watches, the color drains from Will’s face also, his eyes widenin’ when he sees her expression.

“Ma, I didn’t mean-” Will cuts himself off, face screwin’ up like maybe he’s about to cry, and before Mark can ask him if he's okay, Will rushes out of the house. Again.

For a second Mark is afraid his Ma is going to burst into tears too, but instead she takes a deep breath, eyes trained on the shards of pottery that lie on the floor _fragmented_ , which is another way to say 'broke.'

“I’ll take over the stirrin,’ Mark,” Ma says after a moment in a low voice. “How about you pick this up and see if you can put it back whole? I have some paste we can use to try to mend it.”

Mark’s tired arm is glad of the trade, and it’s more interestin’ than he expected trying to fit all the pieces together.

Though he knows better than to ponder on the _metaphor_ of it all (which is another way of sayin’, he looks at the dish and sees only a dish, and he's not interested in seein' anything else that's maybe broke).

The mendin’ holds anyway, and the dish looks good as new, ‘cept for some cracks, and Mark thinks they make it look better anyway.

**

Mark doesn’t think Will made a real apology to their Ma, but he’s home in time for supper—scrubbed clean and hair combed straight like it’s a Sunday—and a bunch of Ma’s favorite yellow wildflowers are sittin’ in a jar on the table when they sit down to eat, so maybe he did. Or maybe, like Mark has been thinkin', words aren't actually all that important in real life anyway.

Far as Mark knows, those wildflowers aren't bloomin’ anymore. Their time passed a couple of weeks ago, but there they are, plain as day. He doesn’t know where Will would have had to go, but it surely would have been _arduous_ to find ‘em.  


Pa joins them from the barn just a few seconds before the hour strikes (Ma has always been mighty _precise_ about the supper hour), sliding into his chair with a sheepish expression to Ma. He shoots Mark a wink when she looks away with a little smile.

“Cutting it awfully close, Mr. Evans,” Ma says, but her eyes are amused, and there’s a warm sound in her voice that’s not always there during the day, pushed out as it is by worries and memories and sometimes plain hunger.

“You know I’d never miss a family gathering if I could help it,” Pa replies, which is what he usually says when he’s almost late to dinner.

“Never miss a meal, you mean,” Ma says, as she always does, no matter what sort of food is on their table.

“That too.” Pa finishes the routine and smiles at Ma softly. These are the moments Mark loves best: when the fire from the hearth lights up their house and keeps the night fenced away outside and they're all together.

Now they should say the evening prayer and get to eatin’, but Pa instead switches up the order of things.

“William,” he says, and Will looks up guardedly from where he's been staring fixedly into his lap. Mark wonders if maybe Will apologized to Pa without words too, cause the anger from the day isn't there anymore on either of their faces. “Mr. Billings is looking for someone to help out at his shop: carryin’ lumber and sweepin’ a few days a week. I told him you might be interested, so long as it doesn’t interfere with your lessons or your chores.”

Will’s eyes widen with surprise, and his mouth falls open before he catches himself. “I’ll do it!" Will says at once. "I mean, if he’ll have me, of course.”

“I don’t see any reason why he wouldn’t. He knows what a good worker you are.”

Will’s face pulls out of its poleaxed expression after a few seconds of shock and turns very serious. _Earnest_ “I-, I can do it, Pa. I can do the work and keep helping out here as much as you need. I know I can.”

Pa nods solemnly. “I know you can too, Son.” His voice is a bit rough, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners, which means he’s smiling inside where it doesn't show as good, but where it's just as honest.

Ma is smiling too, and Mark feels his own mouth pull into a grin. Ma must catch it out of the corner of her eye, cause she turns to him, eyes a little wet looking, but still happy.

“Mark, will you please say the prayer?” Ma asks him, to get the meal back on schedule.

And so Mark bows his head with his family to say grace (which means ‘prayer’ but which also means holding onto what matters and finding hope when it seems there’s nothing but darkness around).


End file.
